


Dear Mr. Holmes

by pimpmypaws



Series: Norbury [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, Gen, Homosexual Character, Pre-Series, The Yellow Face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpmypaws/pseuds/pimpmypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An update on "The Adventure of the Yellow Face" set pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Mr. Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> A companion to my fic "Norbury", although you don't have to read one to understand the other.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I hope you can help me find my son. It’s been a week since he’s been missing and even his landlord hasn’t seen him. I think he ran off with his girlfriend, Emily. Can we meet at his flat in Norbury?_

_Sincerely,  
Martha Wilson_

*

Sherlock stepped out of the black cab and handed a bill to the cabbie. The building he had been left in front of was average, dull. Roughly 60 years old, newer than the buildings around it, and kept looking well. He expected the case he was investigating inside it would rather the same. Ordinary. Uninteresting. But the thought of the paycheck and the bags of white powder he could purchase with it spurred him forward. He hit the buzzer for number 206.

“Hello?” said a woman’s voice from the speaker.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

*

Mrs. Wilson was a small woman, nicely dressed with a silver cross dangling from her slender neck. She stood in the middle of the kitchen wringing her hands while Sherlock roamed the flat, opening cupboards and drawers, peering behind furniture, and studying a family photograph that sat framed next to the television. As he searched, although she didn’t know what for, he peppered her with questions about her son and his girlfriend.

“Charlie was a good boy,” Mrs. Wilson found herself saying, although not in answer to any specific question. “Of course we’ve had our little disagreements, but he likes to please his mother. And that Emily is such a sweet girl or so he tells me. She works in charity, you see, so she keeps odd hours. I haven’t met her. I always imagined she must be a nice girl, but to steal a son away from his mother like this.”

She watched bemusedly as Sherlock studied the titles on her son’s DVD shelf before poking carefully through a stack of magazines on the coffee table. 

“What can you tell from that?” She asked, coming out of the kitchen to watch him better.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Not much.”

Then he grinned in a way that sent her heart racing and headed towards the bathroom. Mrs. Wilson’s curiosity got the better of her as she heard him loudly rummaging through the cabinet under the sink.

“What are you looking for?” She asked, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder as he shifted aside a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner.

“I am merely confirming my theory,” He said, sitting back on his heels. “Curious.”

Mrs. Wilson leaned in closer. She didn’t see anything extraordinary under the sink, just the sorts of things everyone kept in their bathroom. “What’s curious?” She asked.

Sherlock smirked. “Tampons.”

“I don’t see any tampons,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“That is what’s curious,” Sherlock said, closing the cabinet swiftly and standing. He turned to look at the confused woman. “You say he had a girlfriend.”

She nodded. “Emily, like I was saying. They’ve been together for a year.”

Sherlock swept by her and back into the sitting room. It was a tidy flat, not sparse, but neat and overwhelmingly white. White carpet, white walls, white sofa. Sherlock’s black suit stood out sharply against not only his pale skin but the pale background.

“Wrong!” He announced. “If a woman lived in this flat or visited regularly why wouldn’t she keep feminine hygiene products in the bathroom? There is women’s clothing in the closet, a sampling of the sorts of movies and books that tend to appeal to the fairer sex, his-and-hers toothbrushes. But you’ll notice the pink toothbrush is new, never been used. Obviously your son has gone through a lot of trouble to make it appear as though a woman lives here.”

He gestured wildly as he spoke, pointing towards the bedroom, the television, and the bathroom in turn. He wasn’t angry, but Mrs. Wilson shrank back slightly from his enthusiasm.

“So why would he pretend to have a girlfriend? From the family portrait I have deduced that your son is gay, so it is not a stretch to say that you two had a falling out over this and he invented this Emily to stay in your good graces,” Sherlock continued on recklessly, paying no attention to the way Mrs. Wilson’s careful smile had dropped from her face. “Keeping up that charade indefinitely is more than most people can manage and your son was exhausted of it, hence his disappearance.”

The change in Mrs. Wilson was immediate. Whereas she had answered the door as a kindly, if somewhat sad and nervous, woman, Sherlock’s words turned her nearly frantic. “My son isn’t gay!” She said instantly, bringing one hand up to clutch at the cross at her throat. “He thought he was, but he isn’t.”

Sherlock shook his head. “And that is the attitude that convinced him to break off contact with you.” He straightened his jacket and turned for the door. “I will be in contact regarding payment.”

“No!” Mrs. Wilson cried, leaping forward to clutch at Sherlock’s sleeve. “Please don’t go. Do you know where my son is? I need my son. It—it doesn’t matter if he’s gay.”

He pulled his arm from her grip, sneering down at her coldly. “It is your son’s decision and his alone to make his whereabouts known. You should hope he is more forgiving than I.”

With that, he turned again towards the door and left the flat without another glance back at the distraught mother.

*

His flat was nothing like the missing Charlie Wilson’s. Where Wilson’s had been tidy and presentable, Sherlock’s was chaotic. Where Wilson had a family portrait, Sherlock had a skull. The skull seemed to watch him as he sat in his armchair, pulling his knees up to his chest. The flat served his purposes. The strange smells, loud noises, and general mess weren’t questioned in this neighborhood. Other tenants of the building were worse.

“What are you looking at?” He asked the skull. “Clearly the woman was a bigot incapable of loving her son as he is. I did him a favor by not revealing his escape to Germany.” 

He narrowed his eyes at the white hunk of bone as it continued to stare at him. “Let me remind you, I do know how he feels.” 

*

_Mr. Holmes,_

_You bastard. You presumed to tell me that I drove my son away. I’ll have you know the police found him dead in the home of his business partner. My son is dead because of you. I know your reputation, Mr. Holmes, and I know you could have saved him. You were right that I was angry when he told me he was gay, but that would never stop me from loving him. I am a better woman than you give me credit for being._

_As for your payment, you can expect nothing from me._

_Martha Wilson_

Sherlock turned his gaze from the laptop, thoughts on the cocaine he would be unable to purchase.


End file.
